


Blistering

by Arwriter



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur Whump, Cold Weather, Early Days, Family, Found Family, Hurt, Hurt Arthur Morgan, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Dutch, injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-08 00:45:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18884662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arwriter/pseuds/Arwriter
Summary: Arthur rarely found himself welcome in a new town, but he'd forgotten just how cruel people could be towards an unwanted stranger.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry about the wait! I've been really sick lately, but I was finally able to get back into the swing of writing with a longer, purely self-indulgent oneshot.

The thin walls of the flimsy saloon did little to combat the bitter, icy winds, Arthur still shivering as he pushed his way inside. 

From what he’d seen, the town they’d stumbled across was populated entirely by angry drunks, perfect for Arthur to slip into the bar and pick a few pockets, less so for Dutch and Hosea who relied on conversation to make decent money. 

The place didn’t look promising, the town small and poor, but Dutch insisted on setting up camp anyway, claiming they all needed a break for a few days at least. 

Arthur couldn’t help but agree, despite how unappealing sleeping in the heavy snow sounded. They were running dangerously low on funds and supplies, and it felt like the law had been breathing down their necks the past weeks.

Hosea had stayed behind to pitch the tents and try to make their temporary home as warm as possible. Dutch had opted to pay the run-down general store a brief visit, sending Arthur a knowing smile as the younger man made his way to the bustling saloon. 

“Try and save  _ some  _ of our money,” Dutch had warned, no real malice in his voice, only amused resignation. “And try to be back before the sun comes up.” 

“Whatever you say,” he’d muttered, ignoring the older man’s chuckle as they went their separate ways, Arthur traversing the steps to the noisy bar. 

The place was in just as much disarray as the rest of the town, the paint peeling off the walls, the floor covered in stains, strewn with men in various drunken states, voices booming and bouncing off the walls. 

There were eyes on him as soon as he walked inside, Arthur shaking the lingering flakes of snow from his hair, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets and crossing the room to the bar.

There were distrusting snarls, glares, and quiet mutters, but for the most part, the other customers left him alone, only watching cautiously. 

The bartender didn’t seem any kinder, raising an eyebrow as Arthur leaned against the bar, crossing his arms as he studied the younger man.

“You got any money, kid?”

Arthur ignored the condescending tone, tossing the bartender a quarter as he ordered a beer, electing to keep his head down and his mouth shut. 

Hosea would want him to keep a low profile and stay out of trouble, despite the irritation that came with being treated like an inconvenient street urchin after so many years. 

There was suddenly a presence at his side, someone pressing up uncomfortably close against his shoulder, the stench of alcohol radiating off the stranger, and Arthur tensed. 

“You looking for work?” the man asked, words slurring together. “Ain’t much here for folks like you, son.” 

Arthur didn’t even bother to spare the man a glance, taking another swig of his drink, trying not to wince at the bitter flavor sliding down his throat. 

“You dumb or something, boy? I asked you a damn  _ question.”   _

There was a hand reaching for his face, and Arthur quickly pulled away, hand curling around his glass as he finally turned to look at the drunk. 

The man was tall and broad, and if it wasn’t for the way he was hunched over and swaying, he would have stood several inches over Arthur. He wiped a hand across his sweaty forehead, staring at the younger like he was some disease riddled child with the audacity to walk right into his home. 

Arthur pushed down his irritation, suddenly hoping Dutch and Hosea found some way to rob the whole town blind. “I’m just passing through, mister.” 

“We don’t like newcomers around here” the drunk snarled. “Last guy who was just  _ passing through  _ tried to rob me. You hear me, boy? Tried to take the gun right off my belt.” 

“Sorry,” Arthur said, finishing his drink and slamming it down to the bar. “But that ain’t my business.” 

“You a thief too, boy?” 

The words were the most coherent thing the man had said, the question hanging in the air, cold and threatening. Arthur could feel surrounding eyes on him, the other men staring, watching and waiting for an answer, and he suddenly found his own gaze wandering to the door. 

He needed to get out, the small saloon now suffocating and unwelcome. Dutch would be disappointed, Arthur bringing back nothing, turning and running like a coward, but the uneasy twisting in his gut won over anything the older man would say. 

“No.” He shoved the empty bottle aside, eyes trained on the exit. “Have a good night, sir.” 

It happened in a frantic blur, a fist swinging at his face without warning, the blow sloppy and wild, Arthur just managing to block the strike. But he wasn’t given enough time to stop the second, the punch slamming into Arthur’s gut and sending him reeling. 

There was a hand twisting in his hair, another man he hadn’t even heard approach wrapping a burly arm around his throat, keeping him still as an onslaught of blows came to his chest and stomach. 

The second man, as angry and protective as his friend, was also just as drunk, and his hold was easily loosened when Arthur slammed an elbow against his ribs, screaming as a bone audibly snapped. 

The drunk pulled away and Arthur stumbled back, too slow to block the punch to his face, and too late to catch himself as he landed on the ground, hard. 

Stars danced along his vision, Arthur quickly shaking his head and struggling to sit up as his anger threatened to boil over, no longer caring about what Hosea would say. 

He kicked out, ignoring the sick satisfaction brought by the man’s howl of pain when Arthur’s boot found his shin. 

He did his best to pull himself up, aching ribs protesting the movement, rolling onto his knees as the second man lunged forward. Arthur reared back, clenching his fist, all his fight effectively killed by a sudden blinding pain in his back. 

He hadn’t heard the third man sneak up behind him, hadn’t even seen anyone in the bar with a knife, but he was almost positive that was what was digging into his skin, the agonizingly sharp blade twisting just above his hip. 

It wasn’t in too deep, the wound far from fatal. Hosea would easily be able to help him stitch it up once he found a way back to camp. But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt, the sensation of spreading blood drowning everything else out. 

The knife was pulled away and Arthur couldn’t help but gasp, his shirt now wet and sticky, the shock of the pain briefly rendering him useless. 

It was just enough time for someone to land another blow to his face, sending him crashing back to the ground. He cried out when someone kicked him in the stomach, again in the back when he tried to turn over on his side, the toe of their boot too close to the bleeding wound. 

One of the men hit his face again, and Arthur could taste blood, could feel the warm crimson gushing from his nose and oozing from the hole in his back. 

The beating didn’t stop, and Arthur found his fight growing desperate, slowing as the pain grew unbearable, the men’s threats and taunts becoming muffled. 

Dutch would be furious at him for being careless enough to let this happen. But Arthur could only imagine the things he’d do to these men, the thought the only thing keeping him grounded as he resorted to covering his head with his arms, gritting his teeth and bearing through the assault.

_ “Hey!”  _

The call tore through the commotion, voice loud and controlling, and the beating came to an abrupt halt. Arthur risked raising his eyes to watch the bartender, letting himself hope there was at least one person in this town that wasn’t a complete psychopath. 

“You’re about to kill him, Tim,” the bartender said, casually, like he couldn’t possibly care any less, and one of the men above Arthur scoffed. 

“You see the way he disrespected me?” he asked. “The son of a bitch tried to walk away from me, did you see that?” 

The man was fuming, voice shaking with rage, and Arthur heard murmurs of agreement from the surrounding assailants. 

“He’s a thief,” one of them said. “Ain’t no one around here want him.” 

The bartender sighed, waving a hand dismissively. “Then get rid of him  _ outside.  _ Killing customers ain’t good for business, thief or not.”  

Arthur’s heart sank, feeling the first prickle of fear set in around the pain, unable to stop himself from crying out as hands hooked under his shoulders, roughly yanking him to his feet. 

“Come on, kid.” 

Arthur was pulled and pushed to the doors on unsteady feet, dragged down the rickety stairs and through the heavy snow where a group of miserably cold horses were hitched and waiting. 

His head was spinning from a mixture of pain and blood loss, leaving him almost immobile as he was practically manhandled and thrown on the back of a horse. 

Someone had a lasso in their saddlebag, tying his wrists tightly together, attempts to pull away quickly proving useless, the rope digging painfully into his skin. 

The men didn’t even give him the courtesy of putting him on his stomach, pushing him on his back as he was laid over the horse, the odd angle pressing into the knife wound. The horse lurched forward, each step a new wave of agony. 

Blood was dripping into his eyes and Arthur blinked, trying to clear his head as the upside-down streets swam in and out of focus. He thought he could see the general store, the light still on, and his heart lurched, desperately hoping Dutch hadn’t left yet, that someone could still help him. 

He tried to call out, but the older man’s name was cut off by a ragged cough, Arthur left to choke and wheeze as his own blood slid down his throat. 

The town was small and quiet, most people tucked away in their homes to wait out the brutal weather, and it was only moments before they’d left the lights and noise behind, the men riding Arthur away from any witnesses. 

Not that anyone would have cared. 

He thought he might have blacked out, blessedly fading away from the pain, because the next thing he knew someone was grabbing his ankles, yanking on his legs until he fell to the ground, the horse snorting in protest. 

Arthur had forgotten just how cold it was, the wind whipping painfully at his battered face, the snow falling into his eyes. His shaking was only making the pain worse, the chattering of his teeth torture against his bruised jaw. 

Someone grabbed the back of his collar, dragging him backwards, his hands still pinned behind his back. He kicked out, boots finding nothing but layers of heavy snow, his struggles doing nothing to slow him down. 

Arthur was shoved up against something solid, groaning as hands pushed against his chest, keeping him still. There was something being tied around his neck, not tight enough to choke him, but enough to keep him from moving his head. 

The men finally pulled away, hearty laughter wafting into the frigid air. Arthur blinked, struggling to see around dried blood and snowflakes resting on his eyelashes. 

“Comfortable?” Someone was slapping his cheek, jolting him back to the world of the living, and everything just seemed to grow colder, his shaking almost violent. 

Arthur turned his head as best he could, dread mixing with the cold set into his bones when he saw what the men had done in their drunken rage. 

He was leaned up against an old fence, tied by his neck to one of the broken posts, too tight for him to even try and scoot forward. They’d looped his tied hands over the wood, the snow resting painfully on his trembling fingers.   

“Can we shoot him  _ now?” _

Arthur let his gaze wander upward, only able to silently watch the three men hovering above him, frowning when one of them shook his head. 

“That ain’t no fun.” The man smiled, crouching down to Arthur’s level, watching the younger man flinch away. There was a small pocket knife in his hand, stained with blood, and Arthur wondered how a weapon that small could cause so much pain. 

“Get the hell away from me,” he snarled, his voice pathetically weak to his own ears. His words only seemed to amuse his captors, but it was all he had. “You’re drunk, do you hear me? This is a mistake, just let me go.” 

He knew he was begging for his life like a coward, but he couldn’t find it in him to care. He wouldn’t let himself die like this, beaten and helpless, at the mercy of a few pathetic drunks who had managed to overpower him. 

But any reason had long since been drowned out by anger and cruelty, and the man just laughed in his face, Arthur wrinkling his nose against the putrid stench. 

“Don’t worry, son.” There were hands on his collar, ripping open his coat, and Arthur had to fight against a gasp, the world suddenly so much colder when his too thin shirt was exposed. 

“I bet you ain’t used to this kind of weather,” the man mused. “To be honest with you, I ain’t sure how long a man can last out here.” 

Arthur wasn’t sure his shivering was just from the cold. He closed his eyes against a new wave of pain, unable to meet the man’s gloating eyes, doing all he could to block out the laughs and jeers from the others. 

He heard the man stand and risked opening his eyes, just in time to watch a boot fly at his stomach, digging into his gut. The man kicked him again and again, finally stopping when Arthur couldn’t hold back his cries, quickly cut off by a fit of coughs. 

He tried to hunch over to lessen the pain, but he couldn’t even lower his head with the way he was tied to the fence. He swallowed thickly, suddenly terrified he was going to vomit all over himself.

“Have fun, kid,” the man said, finally turning back to the horses, the others mercifully following. “With any luck, you’ll be dead before the wolves get to you.” 

They left him alone, freezing, scared, and bleeding against the fence, just as the wind picked up, the snowfall growing heavier, leaving Arthur almost completely blind. 

  
  


It was so fucking  _ cold.  _

It was the only thing Arthur had managed to focus on for what had to be hours, the agony of the freezing weather worse than any beating. His shivers just grew worse and worse, his whole body slowly going numb, wracked with awful tremors. 

The world had gone silent, the only noise the chattering of his teeth and his own slowing heartbeat.

The snow wouldn’t stop falling, no matter how many silent curses Arthur sent to the black sky, and it wasn’t long before his legs were completely buried under the white ground. He thought they might have fallen clean off, his feet refusing to respond to his panicked commands. 

Snowflakes rested on his face, no longer melting against his skin, and Arthur couldn’t even try to shake them off, only able to breathe heavily around the biting pain. 

The empty landscape seemed to stretch on forever, the heavy snowstorm blocking out any signs of life, keeping away any salvation that could save him. 

It hadn’t taken long for the loneliness to set in, a hollow ache clawing at his failing heart. 

Dutch and Hosea wouldn’t even think to look for him until the late morning, leaving Arthur to enjoy the night off at the bar. Even when they grew suspicious and started to look, it was a slim chance they’d be able to find any time soon. 

He didn’t care if they would be angry or disappointed, he just wanted his family  _ here.  _ He just wanted them to find him, to get him home, resting beside the fire while someone helped him tend to his injuries. 

His throat felt tight, and Arthur stubbornly blinked away tears, terrified they’d only freeze against his eyes and make everything worse. 

He knew it wasn’t their fault, but he couldn’t help the rising frustration, the raw, sorrowful anger that came with the sickening realization that he wouldn’t be found in time. That his family wouldn’t even look, obliviously living under the assumption that he’d wandered off to get  _ drunk.  _

And it was his own fault. He’d stupidly let his guard down. He’d been too slow. He’d allowed himself to end up like this, pathetic and alone, freezing to death, the effects of the cold quickened by the injuries of a fight he couldn’t win. 

And they’d still mourn for him. 

The idea of Dutch and Hosea’s grief just made everything worse. Arthur could clearly picture their faces when they eventually found him, shocked and horrified. With no answers, no one to tell them what had happened, they’d inevitably blame themselves. 

It could be days from now. Weeks, even, depending on how far Arthur had been taken. It was impossible to tell, and his muddled brain couldn’t even try to make sense of his hazy surroundings. 

Arthur leaned his head against the fence, choking back a sob as he let his eyes drift shut, sleep his only escape from the cold.

 

He came back slowly, his breaths now ragged wheezes, struggling for every inhale, every exhale shaky and uneven. 

He tried to move to the side, desperately hoping to wake up the rest of his body, quickly stilling when his broken rib cage popped and shifted. He’d lost all feeling in his bound arms and hidden legs, the rest of his body gradually following suit. 

The sky had turned a light gray, a pastel pink peeking up from the ground, just visible through the heavy gusts of wind and snow. 

He knew, from years of sleeping on the streets, the night was often the coldest just before the sun rose, but he couldn’t remember a time he’d ever felt like this, so detached from his own dying body.  

He couldn’t remember a time he’d ever been so afraid to die. 

But he could feel it happening, could feel the last of his strength fading, could feel the cold sink deep into his bones, freezing his blood, the wind stealing his air. 

He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Everything hurt, and yet he felt nothing at all. He didn’t feel the pain from his injuries, or the once warm blood sticking to his shirt. He couldn’t even feel himself shiver anymore. 

There was a noise, distant and almost inaudible over the roar of the violent winds, a high-pitched howl ripping through the storm. The men hadn’t lied about the wolves. 

Arthur supposed he  _ had _ ended up lucky. As miserable as it was to listen to his own heartbeat gradually slow down in his ears, painful and lonely, this way he wouldn’t have to watch his own blood spread across the snow as he died. 

There was no pain anymore. He was numb, the feeling both blissful and terrifying, and in a few minutes, he’d fade away to an empty darkness, leaving behind the memory of pain and terror.  

But the wolves would find his body eventually, drawn to his corpse by the scent of his blood, and whether he was there to see it or not, the snow would eventually be stained with crimson. 

There might not even be a body for Dutch and Hosea to find. He’d be torn apart, the falling snow soon covering up what little was left of him. There’d be nothing to burry, no proof that he’d ever died, that he’d ever been trapped and plagued with the horrifying reality of never seeing the people he loved again. 

His family would never know what happened to him. Maybe they’d think he’d just gone off on his own, that Arthur had outgrown them, that he’d grown tired of the stress of their lives. 

The thought scared him more than death did. That Dutch and Hosea could ever believe he didn’t love them, that he’d leave them for anything, when they were the only reason he’d lived as long as he did. 

There were no tears in his eyes, but Arthur found himself fighting back a sob, choking on his broken cries, his weak breaths hitching in his dry throat. 

And then he heard it, the noise even quieter than the wolf’s howl. Arthur was almost sure he’d imagined it before he heard it again, the sound clearer as it moved closer. 

_ “Arthur?”  _

There was only one man with a voice that could cut through a snowstorm so easily, and Arthur’s chest felt tight, another sob threatening to overtake him. The dawn was only just approaching, and Dutch was already closer than he’d dared to hope for. 

But he barely had the strength to keep breathing, let alone call out for help. But he knew Dutch wouldn’t find him in time if he kept searching blind, the storm limiting his vision. 

“Arthur!” Dutch called again, louder, achingly close. “Goddammit, Arthur,  _ answer me!”  _

His tone was laced with anger, but Arthur had known Dutch long enough to hear the blatant worry underneath it. 

Arthur forced himself to swallow, wincing at the pain it brought. But he wouldn’t leave Dutch like this. He wouldn’t let his family think they’d failed. 

Moving his mouth was almost impossible, his tongue heavy, lips slow and useless. But he forced the body he couldn't feel to obey him, fighting furiously to speak. 

“D... _ Dutch?”  _ It was too quiet, more a pathetic wheeze than coherent speech. 

“Arthur!” There was no recognition or hope in his voice. “Where are you? Arthur! Arthur, can you hear me?” 

Arthur took in a ragged breath, refusing to let himself die without trying. Even if it took away the last pillars of strength keeping him alive. 

“Dutch!” 

It was all he had. He was falling, spiraling downward, his vision tunneling as he left the world behind. 

“Arthur?” 

He thought Dutch’s voice might be close, but it could be his own dying mind’s last attempt to comfort itself. Arthur let his mouth close again, his voice gone, leaning his head back to watch the sunrise. 

“Arthur?” And then he heard footsteps, heavy and slow against the snow, a dark gold firelight breaking through the gray dawn. “Oh, god,  _ Arthur!  _ Arthur, talk to me!” 

It took a moment for Arthur to register the hands on his shoulders, another to realize Dutch was hovering over him, frantic and desperate. 

He couldn’t feel the hands against his skin, could only watch Dutch’s movements through half-open eyes. The older man moved a hand to Arthur’s neck, searching for a pulse, visibly relaxing when he felt the weak heartbeat. 

Their eyes finally met, Dutch worried and terrified, and if Arthur could, he would have smiled. 

“Jesus, Arthur, Jesus  _ Christ.  _ You’re gonna be ok, you’ll be fine. I found you, son, I found you. I’m getting you out of here, you’re going to be ok.”

He was rambling, the words oddly comforting as he moved to cut away the rope on Arthur’s neck, moving around to undo the bonds around his wrists. 

“God, you’re freezing.” 

No longer forced to lean against the post, Arthur felt himself falling to the side, hands still held limply behind him. 

Dutch was moving around to support him, cradling his head with one hand, working to dig through the pile of snow on his legs and waist with the other. 

“Who does this?” Dutch snarled, wrapping an arm around Arthur to pull him away from the fence. “Who the fuck...Arthur, keep your eyes open for me, ok?” 

If he was more aware, he would have laughed at how quickly Dutch’s tone changed, furious one minute, panicked and gentle the next. 

There were hands on his face, cradling his jaw, moving to run through his hair to push away the lingering snow. Dutch whistled, furiously calling for his horse, frantically glancing over his shoulder. 

“You’ll be ok,” Dutch said again, Arthur watching in horror as the other man pulled off his own coat, wrapping it around Arthur’s shoulders. “Say something, son. Please.” 

Dutch’s hands and clothes were blistering against Arthur's frozen skin, every touch now a new spark of pain. Latching onto the other man’s fear, he tried in vain to form Dutch’s name, the word dying on his lips in a breathy gasp. 

“God, Arthur.” Dutch kept a hand on Arthur’s face, whistling again for his horse, cursing under his breath. “Stay with me. Stay with me, son. You’ll be safe soon, I promise.” 

Against the snow, Arthur could just make out the soft pounding of hooves, Dutch’s familiar horse coming closer, visibly shaken and uncomfortable.

“Can you stand?” Dutch asked, and if Arthur had the strength he would have chided him for the stupid question. It still felt like his legs had fallen off long ago. 

But he could only blink, meeting Dutch’s eyes sorrowfully, letting out a low whine of agony when the older man moved to brush the snow from Arthur’s forehead. 

He’d longed so badly for warmth and comfort, but Dutch’s touch was like fire. 

But the sound of his breathing, the feel of someone else’s presence was enough to set him at ease, the loneliness vanishing as soon as Arthur had heard Dutch’s voice. 

And Dutch seemed to recognize his weakness, forcing a sad smile through his panic, moving to support Arthur’s back. 

He’d almost forgotten about the knife wound, the injury having quickly proved to be the least of his worries. But the sudden touch pulled at the bloody hole in his skin, sending a new wave of white-hot agony through his entire body. 

He didn’t have the strength to scream, only able to let out a strangled gasp, tensing against the pain. He wanted to reach out a hand to grab onto Dutch, anything to help him bear it, but he still couldn’t feel his arms. 

“I know,” Dutch said, shivering against Arthur as he held him tightly. “I know, Arthur. I’m so sorry. It’s almost over, it’s ok.” 

He yanked them both to their feet, and Arthur nearly choked on the pain, falling into Dutch’s chest, nothing but dead weight on his useless legs. 

But the other man didn’t seem to mind, hooking an arm under Arthur’s legs without warning, hoisting him off his feet and holding him close, stumbling to the awaiting horse. 

It was like he was a child again, helpless and small, and Arthur couldn’t bring himself to care. He felt safe, a warmth he thought he’d never feel again forming in his chest.

Dutch managed to get them both on the saddle, mounted behind Arthur, careful not to press up against the wound. 

Arthur blinked, movements growing more and more sluggish by the second, watching as Dutch wrapped one arm around his chest, the other clutching the reins as they started forward. 

The world was tilting, the pain from the jolting of the horse worsening, and Arthur found himself longing for it all to end, for the world to finally come crashing down on top of him, for the cold to finally wrap around his heart. 

“Stay awake, Arthur,” Dutch ordered, the arm around him tightening. “Come on, son. Keep your eyes open, alright? Talk to me, Arthur, please. Say something. I want to hear your voice.” 

Arthur clenched his jaw, slowly working to move his lips, desperately wanting to at least try and set Dutch at ease. 

“D...D-Dutch…” It was slurred and quiet, but the heat seemed to have done a little bit of good. But he knew it wasn’t enough. His bones were frozen over, blood turning to ice. 

“I’ve got you,” Dutch promised. “Keep talking. What the hell happened to you?” 

“It’s--” he broke off with a wheeze, swallowing before continuing, determined to speak no matter how hard it was. “St--stupid...fight. Th-they...they th...ought...D-Dutch they…”

He couldn’t even get a single thought across. His mind still worked, trapped in a dying body, but it was slowing down, too. He was still dying. He wasn’t alone, Dutch was trying, but the cold was inevitably killing him. 

“It’s ok,” Dutch said, stubborn as always. “We’re almost there. We’ll get you nice and warm while Hosea fixes you up. You know he’s worried out of his mind? Practically forced me to go back into town and look for you.” 

Arthur couldn’t even manage a smile. He couldn’t keep his eyes open. 

“Stay with me,” Dutch pleaded. It wasn’t an order, wasn’t a request, he was  _ begging.  _ “Please,  _ please,  _ just stay with me. We’re so close, Arthur, come on. You ain’t dying like this.” 

Arthur didn’t think either of them had much of a say in the matter. He’d always envisioned his death at Dutch’s side, gunned down, fighting for his family. 

At least he wasn’t alone. At least Dutch was here with him, and he and Hosea would have something to burry. 

But he’d die in Dutch’s arms, leaving him with the guilt of being too late. It was almost worse than the thought of never being found at all. 

“Hosea!” 

Arthur thought he could hear a voice in the distance, but everything was rapidly falling away, fading into a grayish haze. He couldn’t see, couldn’t feel the fatal cold or the heat from Dutch’s hands. It took everything he had left to move his mouth again, voice quieter than a dying whisper. 

“S...s-sorry…” 

“Don’t you dare, Arthur,” Dutch snapped, hands grabbing at his shoulders. “Arthur, keep your goddamn eyes open!” 

He couldn’t do as he was told, sinking into the waiting darkness, too far gone to even begin to feel the guilt. 

  
  


The memories were vague and scattered, brief flashes of muffled, frantic voices, of lapping orange flames, of waves of agony and a tightness around his chest. 

Arthur pried his eyes open, pulled awake by violent shivering, his entire body plagued with tremors. He blinked, whimpering when the rest of the pain set in, fire dancing along his skin. 

There was a noise echoing in his ears, loud and repetitive, and it took him a moment to realize it was his own chattering teeth. 

He blinked, the air still cold and biting, but there was no snow covering his frozen body. There was a roof over his head, covered in dust and cobwebs, wooden walls safe and secure, a fireplace crackling just inches away. 

The pressure against his chest wasn’t a confining layer of snow, not anymore, Arthur managing a weak smile when he saw the blankets wrapped tightly around him. 

There were hands draped over his shoulders, Arthur leaned back against something solid, a weight resting gently on the top of his head. 

Arthur swallowed, sighing in relief when he found he could move his lips again, struggling to speak around his chattering teeth. 

“Wh-where...H-Hosea?”  

The wall behind him stirred and the weight lifted from his head, but the hands across his chest didn’t move. 

“Arthur?” Hosea’s voice was soft and gentle, albeit shaky and unsure. “You back with us?” 

Arthur managed a small nod, glancing around the small cabin, trying to remember where the hell he was. 

There were footsteps, and Dutch was suddenly crouching in front of him with a mug in his hands. The other man still wasn’t wearing his coat, cheeks and nose tinged red from the cold. 

“Here,” he said, scooting closer. “You think you can drink this for me?” 

Arthur nodded, working to gradually pull his hand out from under the mountain of blankets they’d wrapped him in, frowning when he realized just how badly his hand was shaking. 

Dutch had to help him hold the mug, carefully guiding it to his mouth, Arthur carefully swallowing the warm liquid. 

“How’re you feeling?” Hosea asked when the mug was pulled away, his hand moving the wrap around Arthur’s forehead. 

“I-it’s...it’s f-freezing in here.” It was almost impossible to speak around the shivering. Despite the blankets, the fire, and Hosea’s chest against his back, it still felt like he was buried under the snow. 

“I know,” Hosea said. “But you’re lucky we found this place. We could be sleeping outside.” 

Arthur hummed, lethargy still seeping into his bones. His ribs and stomach ached, and his back was throbbing, pulsing with each heartbeat. But he could feel the freshly sewn stitches digging into his skin, and forced himself to relax. 

“S-so...I’m n-not dying?” 

Hosea chuckled, soft and gentle, understanding the fear behind Arthur’s question. His hand dropped from Arthur’s face, dropping his chin to once again rest against his hair.  

“No, son. You ain’t dying.” There was a pause, unspoken words still hanging in the air. “Gave us quite a scare, though.” 

Arthur bit his lip, remembering the terror he’d felt, the dread brought by the thought of what Dutch and Hose would think if they never found him. 

“S-sorry.” He shifted his gaze to an uncharacteristically silent Dutch, eyes landing on the deep bruising around his knuckles, and the blood splattered across his sleeves. “Do w-we...do we n-need to leave?” 

Dutch smiled and shook his head, hand moving to clutch the blanket covering Arthur’s shoulders. “No, Arthur. We’re fine. You don’t need to worry.” 

Arthur nodded, letting himself fall back into a waiting Hosea, the man tightening his comforting hold. 

“We can stay here as long as you need,” Dutch said, sitting back to lean against the side of the fireplace. “Nobody here can hurt you anymore.” 

“You just worry about getting better,” Hosea said, running a hand through Arthur’s hair. “Go back to sleep. We’ll be right here if you need anything.” 

Arthur nodded again, eyes fluttering close against Hosea’s gentle touch, a comforting warmth spreading through his trembling body, fighting against the aching cold still settled in his chest. 

“Th-thank you.”

He barely saw Dutch’s fond smile, barely heard Hosea’s exasperated laugh, already fading out into the older man’s arms, leaving the cold behind.   
  



	2. Chapter 2

“It’s getting late.” 

Dutch sat up in his bedroll, blowing on his hands, watching as the dancing firelight illuminated Hosea’s wandering eyes. He sighed, scooting closer when he realized the older man was shivering. The abandoned cabin’s walls did little to keep out the cold, but it beat sleeping on the frozen ground. 

He’s only been gone a few hours. Let him have a drink, he’s a grown man.” 

Hosea scoffed. “Barely.” 

The cabin fell silent, but Dutch knew the other man well enough to know he wasn’t done, listening to the uneasy fidgeting against the blankets. 

“He doesn’t even know where we are.” 

“He’ll  _ find _ us.” They’d been riding for days, running on coffee and adrenaline, law and bounty hunters constantly on their trail. If Arthur needed to unwind by spending a night out at the bar, that was fine with him. “It ain’t far. He’ll see our tracks.” 

“But the snow might--” 

“Hosea,  _ please.”  _ Dutch dropped back down to his pillow, staring at the dark ceiling. “Just try and go to sleep.” 

Again, there was a beat of silence, but Dutch should have known it wouldn’t last. Not when Hosea had clearly made up his mind that something was wrong. 

“I’m going to go find him,” the older man said, and Dutch had to suppress a groan. “I just...I just got a bad feeling. I’ll be back in an hour.” 

_ “No _ , you won’t.” Dutch forced himself to his feet, pulling up the collar of his coat. “You stay here and keep warm. I’ll go.” 

“You sure?” 

Dutch just sighed, shoving his blanket towards Hosea, frustrated, but begrudgingly understanding the man’s concerns. Arthur’s notorious drinking habits ran the risk of drawing attention to the three men, the last thing they needed in the small town. 

And he’d feel a lot better when they were all together. Dutch would never admit it aloud, but the bounty hunter’s boldness was making him uneasy. The weather should slow them down, but he’d prefer to keep an eye on his family until they were in the clear. 

“You need to rest,” he said, throwing a smirk over his shoulder. “And you ain’t strong enough to carry the boy out of that bar.” 

Hosea scowled, visibly more relaxed as he settled back into the bedroll, blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He was still shuddering, and Dutch could only hope the saloon was warmer than their makeshift camp. 

He slipped his gun back into his holster, draped his satchel over his shoulder, grabbed his lantern and started for the front door. 

“Be careful,” Hosea warned, earning only a grunt from Dutch as he wrestled the door open, fighting against the biting wind as he made his way to the trees where the horses were hitched. 

He mounted, the animal snorting in protest, forced to once again travel through the heavy snow, and Dutch turned them in the direction of the small town. 

He’d never been this far North before, never experienced cold so brutal. He’d been caught up in snow storms before, woken up to ice decorating the lining of his tent, but the weather here almost seemed vicious, tearing at exposed skin, sinking into his clothes. 

As Dutch neared the town, barely able to make out meager lights through the heavy gusts of wind, his gentle concern gradually morphed into rising frustration. 

Arthur should have stayed where he and Hosea could see him. He could go off and drink when things had settled down, when the weather wasn’t cold enough to choke the life out of a man. 

Dutch pulled up to the bar, steadying and hitching his horse outside, pulling on his coat as he carefully traversed the icy steps, shoving his way through the doors. Arthur better be sober enough to walk on his own two feet. 

The saloon was small, most of the commotion dying down in the late hours, the few remaining customers huddled together at the tables, and it didn’t take long to realize Arthur was nowhere in sight. 

“Can I help you, mister?” 

Eyes turned to Dutch as soon as the bartender spoke, mistrusting and apprehensive, tension rising as he strode forward. 

“I’m looking for my friend,” Dutch explained, calm, careful not to let his own uneasiness show. “We just arrived in town earlier tonight. He’s nineteen-” the bartender shifted as Dutch talked, eyes wandering to the ground. “-blond...you seen him?” 

The bartender quickly shook his head, busying himself with the dirty rag on the counter, eyes glancing everywhere but Dutch. 

“No, sir.” 

“Really?” Dutch challenged, voice darkening as he leaned forward. “Because I  _ watched  _ him walk in here.” 

The man swallowed. “I ain’t...I got a lot of customers tonight--” 

“Where is he?” 

_ “Mister,” _ the man tried, barely heard over the screeching of chairs. “I don’t...look, I don’t know where they took him.” 

Dutch’s blood ran cold, head spinning with newfound panic. His hands curled into fists, and the bartender blanched. “Who? Who took him?” 

“Why don’t you calm down, buddy?” 

Dutch spun around, finding himself face to face with an older man, grinning, nose tinged a bright red. 

“Where is he?” Dutch asked, panic growing along with the man’s smile. “What did you do?” 

He shrugged, Dutch’s eyes briefly flying to the two men seated behind him, arms draped over their chairs, snickering as they watched the exchange. 

“We don’t like thieves around here, pal,” he said, and Dutch felt his heart stop. If Arthur had brought this upon himself, had tried to rob while drunk and gotten caught, Dutch was going to  _ kill  _ him. 

After he killed anyone who had laid a hand on him. 

“He’s not a thief,” Dutch said. “We’re only passing through, I swear. Just tell me where he is. Please.” 

The man raised his brow, turning to grin at his friends,  cocky and dismissive like the whole situation was an annoying waste of time. Like Dutch wasn’t struggling to see clearly through his furious panic. 

“I didn’t  _ like  _ your friend,” the man said suddenly. “And I don’t think I like you. So get the hell out of my town before I teach you the same lesson I taught him.” 

Dutch didn’t even remember moving forward, didn’t even remember throwing the first punch. But suddenly he had the man up against the wall, watching as blood rushed from his broken nose. 

“Jesus!” The man tried to struggle, crying out when Dutch threw another punch, knuckles slamming into his cheekbone. 

“Where is he?” 

“Will one of you get him  _ off  _ me?” 

He could hear the other men starting forward, slow and unsure in the face of Dutch’s newly awakened fury.

It took less than a heartbeat for Dutch to plant himself behind the man, hand on his shoulder, pulling his gun from his holster. The men froze as the weapon was cocked, the bar falling deathly silent. 

They wouldn’t be able to stay here anymore. Dutch had caused a scene, exactly what he’d warned Arthur  _ not  _ to do, but at the moment it didn’t matter. He’d let Hosea give him an earful one he got Arthur out of whatever hole he’d managed to dig himself in. 

“I ain’t asking again.” Dutch pressed the barrel of the gun into the man’s neck, before moving to aim at the bewildered onlookers. “Tell me where my goddamn boy is, or I start shooting.” 

“Jesus-ok!  _ Ok!  _ We--we dumped him outside of town--there’s an old fence we tied him to! He had it coming, I swear!” 

“He had it  _ coming?”  _ Twenty minutes in that weather, and Dutch had started to lose feeling in his hands. Tied to a fence, alone and unprotected…

“He was disrespecting me,” the man explained, shaking against Dutch’s hold. “Tried to walk  _ away  _ from me. S-so...so we put him out for the wolves. We were just trying to teach him a lesson!” 

Dutch’s anger only grew with each word, dread seeping into his blood, weighing him down. He should put a bullet in the man’s skull. 

“Alive?” he asked, the question hanging in the air without an answer. “Was he  _ alive?”  _

The man flinched when Dutch raised his voice, the gun pressed back into his neck, hands trembling. 

“Jesus,  _ yes.  _ He was when we left him. We just...we just roughed him up a little. It-it wasn’t a big deal, I swear!” 

It wasn’t a big  _ deal?  _ Arthur’s life was nothing to these men, just a wanderer who had looked at the town bully the wrong way. If he died, they wouldn’t even blink, while Dutch’s whole world would shatter. 

“How long ago?” he demanded. 

“I-I don’t know!” 

The bartender cleared his throat, and Dutch turned sharply to the quiet man. He looked warily to his customers, eyes still refusing to meet Dutch’s. 

“It was hours ago, mister,” he admitted. “The kid was only in here a few minutes.” 

_ Hours.  _ Arthur had been out there, freezing and injured, for hours. He hadn’t even been drunk, yet. 

“Tell me where,” he said, dark and cold, finally loosening his hold. “Tell me exactly where you left him.” 

The men began to ramble off directions, nothing too distinct or clear, all claiming the wind made it almost impossible to see. Dutch wanted to kill everyone in the damn bar without a second thought. 

But he couldn’t afford to cause any more trouble than he already had. Not until he’d had a chance to get to Arthur, to make sure he was alive and safe. 

Dutch shoved the man forward, gun still trained on watchful eyes, slowly backing up to the saloon doors. 

As soon as he was back in the frigid, biting air, out of sight from hostile gazes, Dutch turned and sprinted for his horse, taking off through the snow. 

Arthur would be alive when he found him. None of them were prepared or accustomed to weather like this, their coats not nearly heavy enough, and there was no telling what  _ ‘roughed up a little’  _ meant to sadistic drunk bastards, but he would be ok. 

The dark sky was slowly morphing to a deep gray, and Dutch tried not to think about how long Arthur had already been out here, how he’d put off searching in favor of his own comfort. 

After this, he’d never doubt Hosea again. The man clearly had some sixth sense when it came to the safety of his family. 

When the town faded and the world looked the same, drenched in white and obscured by the wind, Dutch let his panic take over. 

“Arthur!” He screamed until his voice was hoarse, until he couldn’t see through the snowflakes in his eyes, until he was left alone, scared and angry in the quiet snowstorm. “Arthur, where are you?” 

The world was silent, and Dutch wanted to scream, to ride straight back to that town and burn it to the ground. 

And then his horse screamed, suddenly wild and panicked, locking onto an invisible threat, and Dutch was being thrown backwards. 

The snow went past his knees, threatening to rise over his head and suffocate him as he landed on his back, quickly scrambling to his knees, struggling to breathe around the shock of the cold. 

His horse was fleeing, disappearing in the storm and leaving him behind. Dutch froze, slowly turning around, finally able to make out what had spooked the animal so badly. 

Two black eyes were watching him, nearly masked by the weather, mouth curling back to reveal sharp, jagged teeth. The wolf let out a low growl as it lunged, eyes shining viciously as it ran at Dutch. 

He was lucky he was still able to move as fast as he did, with the way he was gradually losing all feeling in his fingers.  

He pulled out his gun, almost too late, firing twice into the wolf’s chest, one more bullet to the head as it stumbled and fell to the ground, the snow quickly stained with spreading crimson. 

Dutch shuddered as he continued forward on foot, now painfully aware the cold wasn’t the only thing that could kill him and Arthur. 

But other than it’s own, there was no blood on the wolf. Wolves never traveled alone, he knew, but with any luck, he’d be able to find Arthur before the starved animals did. 

Unless they’d already found him. 

“Arthur!” he called again, refusing to believe it was hopeless. “Goddammit, Arthur!  _ Answer me!”  _

They were running out of time. The dawn was steadily approaching, the cold somehow worsening along with the first light. If he didn’t find Arthur now...there was a chance he wouldn’t find anything at all. 

Nothing that wasn’t beyond saving. 

The thought made him sick. He wouldn’t lose Arthur to a group of drunk idiots in a beaten down town, his life drained away by savage weather, his body torn up and scattered by animals. 

“Arthur!” But the dread was only rising. Even if Arthur was able to respond, it was doubtful Dutch would be able to hear it over the wind. The men had said something about a fence, and he kept frantically scanning the barren fields. “Where are you? Can you hear me?” 

He wanted to sink to his knees and let the snow bury him. His strength was fading with each lack of a response, hope quickly fleeting. 

And then he saw it, forced to squint through the storm, but he was just able to focus on a piece of wood sticking up from the ground. 

It stretched forward into a long, broken wood fence, nearly buried completely by the snow, and Dutch broke into a run. 

“Arthur!” He could only hope the men were smart enough not to lie. He’d tear the whole town to shreds if Arthur was locked in a basement somewhere. 

The fence seemed to stretch on forever, the snow becoming harder and harder to traverse. But after what felt like hours, a miserable eternity, Dutch finally caught sight of a figure slumped against one of the posts. 

“Oh god,  _ Arthur!”  _ He practically threw himself forward, dropping to his knees beside the unmoving body. “Arthur, talk to me!” 

Arthur’s skin was completely white, half of his body hidden by fallen snow. He was still and unresponsive. He wasn’t even shivering. 

Dutch grabbed Arthur’s shoulders, pulling back almost immediately, realizing with rising panic that the boy was even colder than his surroundings. He showed no sign he registered the touch, no visible relief at finally being found. 

Dutch took a shaky breath, the relentless tremors in his hands no longer from the cold, and reached forward. 

He pressed two fingers to Arthur’s neck, holding his breath, time seeming to slow as he waited, sending silent prayers to a god he didn’t believe in. 

It took too long to find, but Dutch pulled away with a relieved sigh when he felt the heartbeat. It was slow and worryingly weak, but still there. 

And then he realized he was being watched, Arthur’s half open, barely aware eyes staring at him, and Dutch met his gaze. 

“Jesus, Arthur. Jesus  _ Christ.  _ You’re gonna be ok, you’ll be fine. I found you, son.” The words were falling off his tongue as he moved, frantically trying to come up with a plan. “I’m getting you out of here. You’re going to be ok.” 

Arthur blinked, the small gesture proof the boy was still clinging to life, and something in Dutch’s head cleared, finally allowing him to see the full picture. 

Arthur’s hands were held behind his back, tied to the fence, the broken wood keeping his arms elevated. There was another rope around his neck, keeping him held against the post, and Dutch decided not a single person in that bar was living another day. 

He didn't waste any more time, digging through his satchel until he found his knife, moving around the fence to cut through the ropes. 

As soon as he was free, Arthur was falling to the side, limp and unmoving, completely at the mercy of the unruly wind. 

Dutch caught the back of his head with one hand, maneuvering himself so he could work on digging Arthur up from the snow covering his lap. “God, you’re freezing.”  He couldn’t even imagine how cold Arthur’s feet were. 

“Who does this?” Dutch muttered, more to himself than to an unresponsive Arthur, plagued by flashes of the men’s grinning faces. “Who the fuck…” 

He paused as he pulled Arthur away from the fence that had trapped him, heart sinking when he saw the younger man’s eyes start to close. It made him look too much like a corpse. 

“Arthur, keep your eyes open for me, ok?” 

Arthur at least seemed to be able to hear him, begrudgingly obeying. But he was visibly struggling, and Dutch moved his hands to cup Arthur’s face, hoping the contact did something to bring him back. 

He whistled for his horse, hoping the wolf’s presence hadn’t left him stranded, barely allowing himself to glance over his shoulder to the empty storm before turning back to the boy in his arms. 

Dutch absently ran a hand through Arthur’s hair, pushing away the snow, moving down to cradle the side of his face. His skin felt like ice. 

“You’ll be ok.” 

He was too cold, the open coat not nearly enough to keep Arthur warm for this long. Dutch wasn’t even thinking, pulling his hands away to rip off his own coat, wrapping it tightly around Arthur’s shoulders. 

Any other time, Arthur would have protested, pulled away and argued, chided Dutch for being so reckless with his own well being. Even in the face of death, he would insist he was fine. 

But Arthur said nothing, barely even seemed conscious, and it only made the terror worse. “Say something, son. Please.” 

There was still no response, no trace of the familiar voice. Only a quiet, wheezing gasp of pain, Arthur’s eyes still locked onto Dutch. 

“God, Arthur.” There was the gentle sound of hooves against snow, and Dutch sighed, hand still on Arthur’s face. “Stay with me. Stay with me, son. You’ll be safe soon, I promise.”

Arthur couldn’t stand, and Dutch could have sworn the younger man glared when he was asked. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, Arthur’s body probably completely numb by now.

Dutch moved as carefully as he could, pulling back to support Arthur’s weight. As soon as he worked on getting him to stand, Arthur let out an awful sounding gasp, the closest thing the boy could manage to a scream. 

“I know,” he whispered, holding him tightly as he led them both to their feet. “I know, Arthur. I’m so sorry.” 

Arthur was completely limp, falling into Dutch’s chest as soon as he was standing, unable to even raise his arms to steady himself. He caught him easily, carefully bending down to grab Arthur’s legs, lifting him off the ground and holding him tight. 

If he’d been just a few minutes too late, Dutch would be carrying a corpse. 

He managed to get them both on the saddle, Arthur leaned back against Dutch’s chest, his breathing seeming to get quieter and quieter as they rode. Dutch kept talking, not even sure what he was saying, just needing to keep Arthur occupied and awake. 

At some point there was a shaky intake of breath, Dutch watching as Arthur finally moved his blue lips. 

“D...D-Dutch?” 

It was weak, barely audible, painfully unsteady, and Dutch just held him tighter. “I’ve got you. Keep talking. What the hell happened to you?” 

He already knew the answer, and knew it probably wasn’t what Arthur needed to dwell on. But he needed anything to keep him talking, to remind Dutch he was still breathing. 

Arthur didn’t say much, the memory clearly upsetting, only sending Dutch further into his rage. Everyone who had touched Arthur was a dead man walking. 

He went silent again, leaned heavily against Dutch, talking clearly too exerting for his current state. So Dutch found himself filling the silence, quiet reassurances, gentle reminders to keep his eyes open. 

“We’ll get you nice and warm while Hosea fixes you up,” he promised, easily able to imagine the older man’s horror and heartbreak when they got back to him. “You know he’s worried out of his mind? Practically forced me to go back into town and look for you.” 

He should have gone sooner, without question or complaint, as soon as Hosea voiced his worry that something wasn’t right. Arthur could have died because of his hesitation. He still might. 

Arthur’s breathing was dangerously shallow, head lolling back, and Dutch saw him losing the fight against his closing eyes. 

“Stay with me,” he pleaded. “Please,  _ please, _ just stay with me. We’re so close, Arthur, come on. You ain’t dying like this.”

He could see the cabin now, but the alarms blaring in his head told him he was too late. Arthur was fading, dying in Dutch’s arms, and he wanted to break down into sobs. 

“Hosea!” he screamed, pulling the horse to a stop beside the door. He opened his mouth to scream again, panic overwhelming, the words dying in his chest when Arthur spoke again. 

“S...s-sorry.” 

Dutch shook his head, furious. Furious at Arthur, furious at himself, furious at the men who had done this. 

“Don’t you dare!” he shouted, gripping Arthur’s arms, doing everything he could to keep him awake. “Arthur! Arthur, keep your goddamn eyes open!” 

But his words went unheard, Arthur slipping away right in front of him, frozen face going slack as he fell back against Dutch’s chest. But he was still breathing, slowing heartbeat weak against his hands. 

The shouting had finally lured Hosea outside, the door shoved open as the older man stepped into the snow, eyes going wide when he saw the scene in front of him. 

“Arthur?” he rushed forward as Dutch swung his legs over the saddle, an arm held carefully around his back. “What the hell happened to him?” 

“Help me get him down.” 

It was all he said, not willing to waste time to explain, and Hosea seemed to understand, standing beside the horse to support an unconscious Arthur as he was lowered to the ground. 

Hosea didn’t wait for Dutch to dismount, holding Arthur against his own chest and dragging him into the cabin where the warmth of the fire could save his life. 

“He’s freezing,” the older man said, perfectly copying dutch’s earlier, panicked observations. “Jesus, how long was he out there?” 

“Since I left him,” Dutch said, quiet, watching as Hosea laid Arthur inches from the fire. “I think they roughed him up pretty bad, too.” 

He was just starting to notice the bruising on Arthur’s face, made nearly invisible by the discoloration of his skin. 

Hosea was bent over the younger man, using his hand as a temporary pillow for Arthur, his free arm running along his side, presumably checking for injuries. 

“Will he be ok?” Dutch asked, knowing he wouldn’t be able to accept any answer other than yes. 

Hosea suddenly frowned, hand stopping above Arthur’s hip, eyes widening as he peeled away the extra layers of clothing. 

“Hosea?” 

He pulled his hand away, and Dutch’s stomach churned when the older man’s fingertips came away red. 

Hosea was already turning Arthur over on his stomach, swearing when he saw whatever was on Arthur’s back. 

“Get me our medical supplies,” Hosea barked, Dutch immediately reaching for his satchel.  _ “Hurry!”  _

Dutch did as he was told, handing Hosea what he needed, blood-curdling when he caught sight of what the man had found.  

Arthur had been  _ stabbed.  _ Someone had stabbed Arthur before leaving him out in the cold to bleed out, to fade away alone and in pain like his life didn’t matter. 

“I’ll be back.” He couldn’t just stand there while Arthur died, lost to the world. Any other time, Dutch would insist on being as close as possible, doing everything he could to help. 

Now, he knew he would just be in the way. Arthur didn’t need him anymore, not until Hosea managed to save his life. There was only one thing left he had to do. 

“Dutch.” 

He turned, ready to be told to stay, for judgment, for bitterness and blame in the older man’s eyes. But Hosea was only pulling off his coat, tossing it to the other man. “Be careful.” 

Dutch nodded, pulling it on as he slipped back outside, once again mounting his exhausted horse. He’d have to find some way to make it up to the poor animal. 

Riding back into town didn’t take long, the sun still not quite over the hills, the rooftops still plagued with gray light. 

The men would still be in the saloon, still drunk or hungover, hiding from the brutal weather they had used to nearly kill a man. 

Everyone in that bar had been a bystander. Whether they’d hurt Arthur or not, they’d all sat back and let it happen. Nobody had cared. Nobody even thought to wonder if he mattered to anyone. 

Dutch made his way to the back door, moving up the steps and pushing open the entrance. He could see the bartender and the men still crowded around their table, clutching hidden injuries. 

He reached into his satchel, hands closing around the glass of a bottle carefully tucked away. Molotov cocktails were something he and Hosea had recently busied themselves with learning how to make. 

He didn’t give himself time to think, pulling out the bottle and chucking it forward, watching as it shattered in the middle of the floor. 

The fire spread almost immediately, screams filled the air as the saloon was engulfed in smoke, the flames wrapping around the wood floors and walls, blocking the exits. 

Dutch turned away, stepping back into the snow and riding back to the cabin, never sparing the dead men in the bar another thought. 

  
  


Arthur was shivering when Dutch returned, violent and far from reassuring, but much better than the eerie stillness he’d adopted when he’d first been found. 

“Hosea?” Dutch asked, almost afraid to hear the answer, bravado and confidence gone along with his anger. 

Hosea had wrapped a shaking Arthur up in all of their blankets, cradling him like a child, chin pressed against Arthur’s hair. 

“I think he’s going to make it,” he said, quiet, far from sure. “Just about. And I think he’ll even be able to keep all his fingers.” 

Dutch nodded, allowing his shoulders to drop. He shrugged off the coat, draping it over Hosea’s shoulders. 

“And the, uh...the knife wound?” 

Hosea nodded. “Wasn’t too bad.” 

He sighed, rubbing his hands together, fidgeting uncomfortably. Some of the color had already returned to Arthur’s face, his lips no longer tinged with that terrifying shade of blue. 

“Thank you.” 

Hosea grunted. “You’re the one who saved his life. We just need to keep him warm and comfortable now.” 

“I should have listened to you,” Dutch said, settling on the ground beside his family. “You knew something was wrong and I didn’t--”

“Ain’t your fault,” Hosea assured, soft and exhausted. “We just need to keep an eye on each other. These kind of things...these kind of things need to stop happening.” 

Dutch sighed, leaning back on his hands. “The way we live...I don’t know if they ever will. But we’ve still got each other. That’s all that matters.” 

There was too much cruelty in the world, too much hatred towards people like them. People who could never know how important a family was, how losing one man could so easily destroy another. 

Hosea just hummed, watching Arthur’s chest rise and fall. He didn’t ask about the fate of the men that had done this, but Dutch figured he already knew.  

He found himself leaned against the older man’s side, both shivering along with Arthur, the small family doing all they could to keep warm while they waited for the storm to pass. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so tired y'all. But I'm back and I'm going to have a lot more writing time now!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
